


Gilligan's Island: The Real Story

by Shawn Michel de Montaigne (ShawnMichel)



Category: Gilligan's Island, Lost
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-07-25 22:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7549126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShawnMichel/pseuds/Shawn%20Michel%20de%20Montaigne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of the Minnow and its crew, lost at sea after a storm, everyone knows. But what you don't know is the truth. This is it. Read on!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Island

**Prologue**

**~~*~~**

**7°41’34.8”N, 146°15’43.8”W  
Approximately 1,100 nautical miles SSW of Hilo, Hawaii**

**North Pacific Ocean**

**30 June 2016, 3:47 pm**

 

**He came up gasping.** The sting of salt water kept him from focusing.

 

   A fist caught him in the jaw. Mennon was suddenly on top of him, holding him down, trying to get his big tattooed forearm around his neck.

 

   He thrashed and twisted and managed to get out of his grasp, at least enough to smash a knee into his groin. The overbuilt fuck sucked in a mouthful of seawater and lashed out. The blow grazed his cheek. He flipped in a tight ball and wrapped his legs around Mennon’s neck and twisted violently with everything he had left.

 

   The two of them sank.

 

   The water was crystal clear and silent.  He could see the _Minnow_ sinking into the blackness a hundred feet down.

 

   The same blackness that would be his and Mennon’s grave.

 

   So fucking be it.

 

   Mennon couldn’t get free, try as he might. He writhed and fought, but it didn’t matter. He reached behind him, clawing at his body, at his chest, at anything he could reach. He grabbed his chin; for his trouble he lost a finger. Blood soon clouded the struggle. Sharks would be on the way. He wouldn’t survive them.

 

   Mennon coughed and weakened. He grabbed his head with both hands and jerked viciously, and Mennon’s neck snapped. He heard it—a muffled double- _pop!_

 

   Howell’s head bodyguard went still.

 

   He released him and clawed for the surface.

 

   He wasn’t going to make it.

 

   A deep calm like the patient darkness below overtook him. His lungs gave up and seawater rushed into them. He twitched violently and lost consciousness.

 

~~*~~

 

**Chapter One**

**The Island**

**~~*~~**

 

 

**He had drowned before**. During a training exercise in icy Pacific waters just south of LA, he sucked in a lungful of water and blacked out. They hauled him into the raft and Skinny CPR’d his dead ass back to life. He coughed back to consciousness. An hour later he was training again, despite having two cracked ribs.

 

   He remembered the dread as his lungs took in water. It hurt like hell, and his body shook like he’d been nailed to a high-tension power line, and then his mind went dark.

 

   Like an unwelcome visitor, the darkness had come for him again.

 

   — _Blackness_.—

 

 

 

Coughing. Jesus, it hurt like a son of a bitch! It was … him! Well, of course it was! Who the fuck else would be hacking like a chain smoker?

 

   Coughing and coughing. Water expelled from his lungs and stomach like shrapnel from exploding grenades. Water … no, air! If he turned his head— _air!_

 

   He turned his head as far right as he could and sucked wind between bouts of violent retching.

 

   His head throbbed like a bitch, so he didn’t open his eyes. Bright orange-red light glared through his closed eyelids, like his face was pointed at the sun.

 

   Coughing, coughing … _Breathe, another! Breathe! Another! Breathe! Breathe! Breathe! There you go … there you go … there you go …_

 

   An insect stung his face, and he slapped at it. It was then he tasted … mud? Sand?

 

   It came to him then that he was beached in shallow water.

 

   Coughing … a long, wracking spasm. When it subsided he forced his eyes open to a bare squint. His head throbbed like his brains might leak out his ears any second.

 

   He pulled focus as best he could, which wasn’t good at all.

 

   Water. Half his face was submerged in it. Tiny waves glinting with bright sunlight washed against him.

 

   In the near distance … more water … then—sand. Sand? Sand!

 

   “What the— _cough!cough!cough!_ —what the— _cough!_ — _fuck?_ ”

 

   In the far distance … palm trees.

 

   He _didn’t_ drown? Somehow, while unconscious, he surfaced and drifted face up in bloody, shark-infested Pacific waters—to an island?

 

   Fucking absurd!

 

   Apparently not. This … this looked like reality. He wasn’t dreaming.

 

   Was he dead? Was this hell? Sure as shit he wasn’t going to the other place.

 

   _Fuck it._

 

   He dug his hands into sand beneath him and pulled himself out of the water. When his fists clutched dry sand, he collapsed. The darkness was waiting patiently for him.

 

   — _Blackness_.—

 

 

 

Pain. Top of his head. Sharp. Sudden. Repeated.

 

   A squawk. Another sharp pain.

 

   He waited a half second between one pain and the next and lashed out.

 

   The vulture pecking at his head pecked at his hand the last instant it was alive. He grabbed its neck and twisted, eyes still closed, and tossed the lifeless carcass away. He could hear other vultures flap quickly out of his reach.

 

   “Not dead yet!” he announced, his voice gravelly with the sting of expelled seawater. He spat sand. “Not fucking yet …”

 

   How that was true was beyond him.

 

   The _Minnow_ had sunk. He’d _watched_ the fuckin’ thing sink! Its three hundred ninety-five-foot length stuck out of the ocean like it had been fired into it, like it was some obscene giant’s arrow shaped like an ultramodern yacht, its stern ablaze, its occupants trapped inside.

 

   Or had they been?

 

   He’d come looking for Mary Ann (where the fuck did she go?). Mennon was waiting behind the bar.

 

   Shots. Bastards! But he was ready for them. He knew Carlos and that Argentinian fruit fly with the bandana and the Jesus-fucking-Christ-what-a-stupid-tattoo of Madonna on his steroid-inflated chest had already jumped ship. A boat was waiting for them. He saw it hurry away trailing a big white wake.

 

   BLAM!BLAM!BLAM!BLAM!

 

   He dropped and swept with his leg, and the shots ricocheted off the table or buried themselves in the fine wood of the deck. The assailant— _who the fuck is this?_ —lashed out with a knife in his other hand. Missed. And now the knife was his.

 

   He jerked it into the bastard’s stomach, then pulled it out and underhanded it at Mennon, who deflected it as he jumped the bar for him. He got to his feet as Howell’s bodyguard slammed into him.

 

   The fight was a blur: fists flew, deflected; kicks; an elbow, knees, twisting, spinning, clawing. Mennon caught him good just below his neck. He got free, sucking wind, and tore up the stairs, the asshole grabbing at his pants.

 

   No one up here. Was Ginger Grant gone too? Had he killed her too? _Where the fuck was Mary Ann?_

 

   Spin, kick, deflect the incoming elbow, kick, punch. Mennon was good; but then, that fucker Howell had always employed the best.

 

   But not as good as him. He let one fly. His fist caught Mennon square in his square chin. He tried keeping his balance, but a spinning wheelhouse sent him head over heels back down the stairs.

 

   _“MARY ANN! MARY ANN!”_ he bellowed, rushing for the quarterdeck.

 

   BOOOOOM! _WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH!_

 

   Fire engulfed the casino room. He was suddenly clawing his way through noxious smoke. The fucking yacht was going down; that was certain.

 

   More stairs.

 

   Sunlight.

 

   The pool glimmered as though full of liquid sunshine—and now twenty-foot flames. Grant’s towel bag was next to a lounger, as was Mrs. Howell’s. Glasses full of mimosas had spilled. The ship lurched with another explosion, this one stern, what sounded like one of the _Minnow_ ’s big engines. Tables scattered like a hurricane had grabbed them, along with him, who pitched forward into the pool, which, at this angle, was now emptying onto the deck.

 

   He pulled himself out as Mennon emerged out of the smoke at the landing, broken whiskey bottle in hand. His forehead bled, giving him a gruesome visage, and his huge forearms trembled with exhausted rage. It must’ve been exhaustion, because he chose to talk instead of attack.

 

   “You ain’t gettin’ out of this alive, Santayana,” he growled over the fire’s roar.

 

   “Neither are you. So put down the junk and have a drink.”

 

   He scooped up a bottle of something that was rolling around and held it up without looking at what it was.

 

   Mennon took a step to get out of the smoke. “Thanks. I generally don’t drink tanning lotion until after dark.”

 

   He glanced at the bottle in his grip. Tanning lotion?

 

   Yep. Tanning lotion.

 

   Who the fuck put tanning lotion in a glass container shaped like a fucking whiskey bottle?

 

   He kept it. Mennon took another step towards him.

 

   “I’ll give it to ya, Gilly,” he said, taking another step. “You know what you’re doin.’ But you faggot SEALs can’t hold my dick.”

 

   “If you had one,” said Gilly.

 

   “You’ll be suckin’ mine soon enough,” snarled Mennon, and came at him.

 

   Gilly dropped the lotion and dove overboard. When he came up he swam as fast as he could. The boat was going down, and it’d pull him down with it if he didn’t get the fuck away right fucking now.

 

   Of _course_ there were no life rafts!

 

   Mennon, he knew, had been an All-American swimmer back in the day. He saw him dive in after him.

 

 

 

It must’ve been low tide, because he was no longer half-submerged.

 

   The vultures had left him alone. They tore apart their dead comrade and didn’t bother him.

 

   He turned over with a sustained groan and opened his eyes, still only to a squint.

 

   A lagoon. A small waterfall roared quietly to his right. Palm trees … everywhere.

 

   The sun was setting. The air was cool and calm.

 

   He got to his elbows, opened his eyes fully, and looked down at his person.

 

   His black servant’s pants … torn. His white shirt and bow tie—gone. Where the fuck were they? He didn’t remember taking them off.

 

   His chest was covered in cuts and bruises. His neck felt broken. His lower lip felt like a swollen noodle, and his nostrils were clogged with dried blood, forcing him to breathe through his mouth. The bridge of his nose felt broken. He fingered it carefully.

 

   Sand fleas bit him mercilessly. He slapped at them. When that didn’t work, he fought to get to his feet. His body throbbed, and he swayed with lightheadedness.

 

   He straightened, grunting, and stumbled for the water, which had receded a good twenty feet. He waded into it. The biting stopped.

 

   Water. _Fresh_ water. From the waterfall. He could taste it mixing with seawater. Suddenly he was dying of thirst. He breaststroked to the fall, his body twinging with every movement, and got under it. He opened his mouth wide and drank and drank and drank.

 

   How to explain what happened to him?

 

   He couldn’t. More to the point, he didn’t care. He was alive. That was all that mattered.

 

   That, and staying alive.

 

   That would be the real challenge.

 

   He was a trained and decorated SEAL. He could do it. For now, he needed to tend to his injuries, and find food and shelter.

 

 

 

Food was aplenty here—wherever _here_ was. It was everywhere, from three dozen varieties of exotic fruit (and counting; many varieties he had never seen before) to edible roots to coconuts, pineapples, wild strawberries, and green apples. There was even a meat supply: an odd species of cattle ran wild here, as did horses, breed unknown, and a tropical bighorn sheep species with huge curving ram’s horns and filthy tempers.

 

   Predators? At first he found none, and saw no traces of them save a species of python that seemed too large to be true. He very nearly stumbled into one. It struck at him but missed, and he ran like a man whose pants were on fire.

 

   Fuckin’ thing had to be forty feet long!

 

   A day later he spied what looked like cougar tracks, and then the tracks of what had to be wild boar.

 

   So yes. Predators. And spiders. _Huge_ spiders. Fucking spiders the width of his goddamn chest! No fucking shit! He’d been camping in a cave when he saw one of them. That was last night—night number five.

 

   No more camping in caves, then.

 

   His wounds were healing quickly—abnormally quickly, like he’d taken a magical salve or something. He had jabbed himself in the palm of his left hand with a makeshift spear the day before yesterday; the wound was deep and needed stitches and a gallon of antiseptic, both of which, of course, he had none. He ended up tearing his pants to make a bandage.

 

   He inspected the wound an hour ago. It looked no worse than a nasty scrape and itched like a bitch. No infection.

 

   _Just_ _where the fuck was he?_

 

   Where had Howell’s guests gone? There were three: movie star Ginger Grant; her best friend Mary Ann Summers; and Professor Roy Hinkley.

 

   It was Hinkley that Howell was most interested in. It was why Howell had set sail from Honolulu in the first place. Some secret destination or other. August Howell, Thurston’s little brother and greedy little jealous sniveling bitch-second to the vast Howell fortune, unsuccessfully tried to blackmail big brother to find out what was what.

 

   Grant was along because Thurston Howell III couldn’t keep his dick out of her, even with his wife on board; and Summers was along because Ginger Grant was a needy superstar who required a constant shoulder to cry on.

 

   And he, Gilly? He was along because August Howell hired him after the blackmail failed. It was his job to find out what was what and report back.

 

   Everything had proceeded to plan. But then a week ago the bosun was found garroted in his quarters, and that’s when shit got real.

 

   Speaking of Thurston Howell: What the hell had happened to him and his wife?

 

   What had happened to the _Minnow_ ’s captain and the rest of the crew?

 

   Who was responsible for blowing up the damn ship?

 

   Howell’s bodyguards: there were a dozen of them, including Mennon, the head asshole. Why did he only see him and those other two at the end? Did the rest leave with the crew and complement? How could they have left without a big fuss being made? It was almost like they just vanished, poof!

 

   Was he left behind so that Mennon and his goons could kill him? Why didn’t Mennon have a life boat ready? It was as if Howell wanted _both_ of them dead; or had sent Mennon on a suicide mission to kill him, which seemed fucking ridiculous.

 

   “Stupid,” he murmured as he watched sunset from the lagoon, which he’d taken to doing the past couple nights.

 

   Mennon wasn’t important. And Howell? Despite being a typical rich pig, selfish and greedy and a sniffing snob, he just wasn’t the murderin’ sort! Still, he and his little bro didn’t exactly exchange Christmas cards. If Thurston Howell discovered why he, Gilly, was aboard, that he’d been hired by August Howell for purposes of espionage, he _might_ do something like drop him off on a remote island somewhere like fucking Guam without a penny to feed his sorry ass or get back home. But— _murder?_ Howell? Not a fucking chance! Right? _Right?_

 

   Too many questions; too much confusion; and now this—this island in the middle of the goddamn ocean (was it even the Pacific?) where no islands existed, not at least where the _Minnow_ sank!

 

   Islands!

 

   He spied them days ago after mounting the tallest mountain here. (Not a mountain, really; more like a big hill with an easy incline on one side and a sheer face on the other. All told, it was five hundred meters tall at most and took up most of the island’s area.) _His_ island he estimated to be five miles wide by maybe six long. It was basically a large jungle-covered circle with a small, round bite taken out its southern end. That was the lagoon he’d woken half-submerged in.

 

   In the distance, to the west, was another island, probably twice the size of this one, maybe thirty miles distant. North of it was a much smaller one, maybe forty.

 

   To the east was a third, which looked approximately the size of this one, but significantly taller, like a series of dramatic, towering, cloud-enshrouded cliffs.

 

   There _were_ no islands where the _Minnow_ went down—where he had drowned. Not for thousands of miles! Hell, Hilo was the closest dirt, and it was over a thousand miles away!

 

   Which meant that he had been saved, brought back to life, then transported and dumped here before he woke up. He could be halfway around the goddamn world!

 

   _Why?_

 

 

 

The sun had set and the spray from the lagoon smelled sweet and fresh. He bit into a particularly juicy mango.

 

   _Why? Why?_

 

   “My little island,” he murmured while chewing. “Gilligan’s fucking Island.”

 

**~~*~~** **  
**


	2. Lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life has been rough for Gilligan since he woke up after drowning and found himself here, on this mysterious island. He has had to rely on his skills as a former Navy SEAL to make it day to day, and on luck. Plenty of luck. More luck, perhaps, than he deserves. More luck, in fact, than what most people get in a lifetime. Read on!

**Sixty-four marks.**

 

   “Sixty-four,” he muttered, staring at the latest knife mark on the dead palm tree that he’d chosen for such a task.

 

   He sheathed the Bowie knife, which he discovered on day thirty-six. There it was, just lying there on a rock next to the crashing surf in its fine leather sheath, like it had been placed there by a helpful sea god. It gleamed brightly in the sun, and instantly replaced the wooden sticks and flint rock he’d fashioned for the same tasks.

 

   His first use of it was to shave off the beard he’d grown while living here. The blade was razor sharp and did a great job.

 

   He stared up at the settling sky. He thought of how, just after waking up here—wherever “here” was—that he’d not camp in caves ever again. Not after that giant spider. Fuckin’ thing had to be a hundred pounds!

 

   But after running into even bigger ones and killing them—and eating them—he soon lost his fear of them. Their freakish size made them somewhat sluggish.

 

   (They didn’t taste like chicken. More like chili rellenos. With extra green sauce.)

 

   His cave was near the lagoon, just a half-mile in or so. Two weeks after waking up here, he fell in it. He was goddamn lucky: a deep pool of fresh water was at the bottom, which was at least thirty feet down. It flowed out a large hole into a tumbling creek that found light a hundred or so feet later. The current dragged him there. He was damn lucky he didn’t drown or impale himself on stalagmites.

 

   The cave’s vertical opening (as opposed to the horizontal one he fell into) was five meters in diameter and well-camouflaged, and was completely dry next to the creek’s bank. It was also spiderless and overhung with mangos and bananas. The creek tumbled happily out of it towards the lagoon. In fact, towards the very falls he had drunk from his first day here. This was its source.

 

   He needed clothing. He had these torn black servant’s pants and nothing else: not even a clean pair of socks. His bare feet were covered in calluses when not bleeding or infected. There were needles buried in the sand and dirt here and there. They were like cactus needles, but thinner, about an inch in length, and hard as fuck to pull out. If he stepped in a patch it was a sure bet he wasn’t going to step on anything else for a week or more. His feet would swell up and then crack and bleed. Fucking painful.

 

   He marked trails he knew were free of them. On this day, sixty-four days after being marooned here, he went back to the beach via the least traversed one. Hell, if a Bowie knife was just sittin’ there like a ready piece of tail, then why not clothes?

 

   He was sunburned and covered in mosquito and fly bites. His dark skin looked almost like it had been dipped in coal dust, with red pustules here and there.

 

   He got to the rock where the Bowie knife had been, and sat on it.

 

   Rain was coming. He was damn grateful for it. The fucking sun was cooking him like a Christmas ham.

 

   “All right,” he murmured. “I find my life here. I find food and water and shelter here. I find this knife right here on this rock. So why not give me some fucking clothes? Can’t you see I’m suffering?”

 

   Who was he speaking to? He didn’t know.

 

   He gazed seaward. The incoming storm, a green-gray veil over the water, made him think of the _Minnow_.

 

   Was he the only survivor? Why? Why would anyone save his skinny ass? Why save it and then haul it however goddamn thousands of miles from the scene of the crime and dump him like a five-dollar hooker? _Why?_

 

   _Why?_

 

   The rain came in like a tsunami. In seconds he was drenched. It felt like heaven.

 

   Wind quickly made everything horizontal. He struggled to his feet. The tree line was a hundred yards off. He got to it and huddled against a large coconut palm.

 

   Lightning. Very close. That didn’t happen often here. He glanced up when hail began falling.

 

   “Fucking A,” he muttered.

 

   It had turned into a goddamn hurricane. He huddled even tighter and swore under his breath.

 

   A gust caught him and actually pushed him away from the tree, which was swaying dangerously and threatening to snap. He rolled to his feet and lunged for a hold on the trunk and just managed to get his arms around it just as another violent gust grabbed him and lifted him off his fucking feet!

 

   _“Holy shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!”_ he bellowed, hanging on for all he was worth.

 

   Another gust tore him away. He flew an unknown distance ass-backwards and smacked his head into something and blacked out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He woke on his back in a puddle. His head throbbed. He had trouble uncrossing his eyes. Concussion.

 

   The storm had passed. Clouds raced overhead like those in a video game. An apocalyptic sun peeked through them occasionally.

 

   He tried lifting himself up. He was one giant ache.

 

   Any broken bones?

 

   He inspected himself while fighting dizziness and nausea.

 

   Nothing but his noggin seemed damaged.

 

   He leaned right and dry heaved. When the spasms abated, he tried standing.

 

   “Bad idea,” he murmured as he swayed uneasily on his feet.

 

   He fainted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He woke face down next to the puddle. If he’d face-planted in it, he’d be dead now.

 

   If he’d face-planted in it during the storm, he’d be dead now.

 

   “Fuck me,” he groaned. “That’s twice now. How lucky a fucker can a guy get?”

 

   He laughed at that. _Lucky?_

 

   He was stranded on an island with no help on the way! No passing ships, no planes overhead ... He’d given up on the signal fire weeks ago.

 

   He had his pants, a knife, and a cave for shelter! That was it!

 

   He’d been here sixty-four fucking days! He’d been struck at by giant snakes, poisoned by a dozen varieties of plants, chased by boar, jaguars, and spiders, and, once, was swarmed by three-inch-long wasps!

 

   _Lucky?_

 

   He chuckled. “Yeah, bitch. Lucky.”

 

   He remembered his CO’s words:

 

   _“The difference between life and death often comes down to the thin film of attitude. If it sucks, that film will be weak and easily defeated, and you’ll die. If it’s positive and strong, you’ll have a shot at getting to the next day with most of your skin. You listening, Santayana?”_

 

   He pulled himself to his hands and knees. “I’m listening. I’m listening.”

 

   The dizziness and headache were gone. So too the nausea.

 

   He blinked and looked around. He could just see the jungle around him.

 

   The middle of the night, then. Fuck.

 

   Nighttime on this island belonged to the many predatory species that called it home. He’d learned that lesson almost from the off.

 

   He reached for his knife. Did he still have it?

 

   Yes. Lucky yet again.

 

   He got to his feet, taking his time. He started in a full crouch, pushing himself very slowly up. When his knees finally locked, he gingerly fingered back of his head. A dried blood clot the size of his palm made him wince.

 

   A concussion that severe would not heal so quickly. But this island had shown him that regular healing times anywhere else on Earth didn’t apply here. He healed much faster than normal here. All those wasp stings—probably two hundred of them—would’ve killed him anywhere else. But here? Here he screamed for two days straight with a raging fever that probably topped a hundred five, then woke the morning of the third with most of the welts gone or hugely diminished and the fever broken.

 

   Lucky? Fuck yeah.

 

   Even in the dark he could see that the jungle had been decimated by the storm. He was surrounded by downed trees. The air was still and, for once, cool.

 

   How far had he flown? The beach, he guessed, was just ahead and to the left a hundred yards.

 

   He climbed over the trees in a steady crouch, knife at the ready.

 

   He gazed up.

 

   The Milky Way was a glowing silver-white paint-brush across a navy sky. He spied Venus, well down to the west, and saw its reflection in the sea. He made his way towards it.

 

   He laughed in disbelief. He had flown at least six hundred feet! _Two_ football fields! The beach was a fucking _long_ way off!

 

   He was hungry and thirsty. He picked up a coconut—one of hundreds lying here and there, and sat at a boulder and began the work to open it. He drank deeply from the opening he drilled into its top, then stood with it in the crook of his arm and continued towards the water.

 

   Giant waves crashed against the rocks, sending spray towards the stars. The continuous thunder they made shook the boulder he mounted. He gazed out.

 

   “So I guess asking for clothes is a no-no?” he muttered. “Maybe next time you could think of a better way of telling me? You nearly fucking killed me!”

 

   He squinted. Was there something out there?

 

   It was impossible to tell. It was far too dark. In Venus’ reflection he thought he spied a mast.

 

   But he’d suffered head trauma, and wasn’t at all certain that he wasn’t seeing things, so he found shelter on the leeward side of a big boulder, then gathered up a decent pile of palm fronds from the jungle line and brought them back in several trips.

 

   Knife next to his head, he got as comfortable as he could on his makeshift mattress (not very at all) and eventually nodded off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He woke sometime in the mid-morning, if the creeping glare of sunlight next to his palm-leaf bed was any indication. He rose, peed, and hopped atop the boulder that had provided him shelter. His hunger and thirst had become ravenous.

 

   He gazed out over the water, and forgot both instantly.

 

   A gleaming-white luxury craft—a catamaran, maybe a sixty-footer—floated a thousand yards offshore. Its sails were down.

 

   It _was_ a mast he’d seen!

 

   _“I’ll be a son of a bitch!”_ he laughed. He shook his head violently to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, and continued staring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He drank coconut milk and peed again. He had left the beach only to grab the coconut and get it open, then hurried back. The boat was still out there.

 

   He made up his mind.

 

   From the edge of his boulder, he took a deep breath and dove into the sea. The water was instantly deep and, despite the storm, almost totally clear. He frantically kicked and pulled to keep from being swept back into the rock. He was a good fifteen feet down and so incoming swells pushed him back five or six feet each time, no more than that, which he quickly made up. When he became desperate for air a minute later, he fought for the surface. He broke it rasping.

 

   The ocean had calmed considerably since last night, else he wouldn’t have tried that stunt. He stroked for the catamaran.

 

   He wasn’t a fucking All-American swimmer like Mennon, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t very strong in the water, which he was. Especially in seawater. He’d won his share of Ironman triathlons, and it was largely because of the strength of his swimming.

 

   A thousand yards—three thousand feet. Even in calm seas that’s a lot of water to cross. If you’re hungry and weak from getting your head smashed in a hurricane, three thousand feet can feel like thirty thousand feet.

 

   Eventually the boat grew large in his watery vision. He breaststroked to the port hull. The blue lettering on its side proclaimed the boat was named _Lanie_.

 

   A woman screamed. From inside the cabin.

 

   _“Get away from me!”_

 

   The muffled sound of glass smashing, then sounds of footsteps and a struggle. She screamed again. It sounded like someone was choking her.

 

   He hurried to the ladder and climbed it. He pulled his knife out and jumped to the deck in a crouch.

 

   _Lanie_ was of ultra-modern design and quite roomy. Her deck was littered with broken bottles and a downed sail, which had snapped from the mast and fallen over the starboard hull.

 

   _“Get off me, you bastard! Off! Off!”_

 

   He hurried around to the stern door and jerked it open.

 

   _“Help! Oh God, help me!”_ she screamed from somewhere sightless. _“HELP ME!”_

 

   The assailant was suddenly there and lashed out with a fist, which just caught his jaw. His head snapped about and he crashed spinning against the kitchen sink. His clot throbbed and blood poured down the back of his neck.

 

   The assailant grabbed his chin and tried snapping his neck as he fought for consciousness. He stabbed blindly at the asshole’s bare feet. The fuckhead screamed and released him, his foot spurting blood. His pinkie toe had been amputated.

 

   He glanced at his attacker as he struggled to his feet.

 

   _Shit!_ It was the Argentinean fruit fly with the Madonna tattoo. From the _Minnow_!

 

   Teeth bared, sweat pouring off his bow, the asshole snatched a butter knife from the kitchen table and brought it about threateningly.

 

   The woman had gone silent. Was she dead?

 

   “You fuck, Santayana!” roared the fruit fly with his ridiculous accent. “You’re supposed to be dead! DEAD! Fuck you!”

 

   He lunged.

 

   Gilligan had no room to maneuver. He smashed back first into a closet door as the butter knife came arcing down for his eye. He just got his head out of the way. The silver blade sank into his neck where it met his shoulder, and that was bad enough. The blade was out red and dripping an instant later and coming up for his exposed gut.

 

   It never got there. His Bowie knife intercepted it in the next tenth of a second, blocking it out of the way, then came up and down into the fruit fly’s forehead, going in to the hilt.

 

   The assailant gurgled, eyes crossed. He dropped to his knees.

 

   Gilligan held the hilt with both hands, enjoying the shudder of death sinking through the knife into the dipshit’s brain. With a single motion, he yanked the blade out and put it back in the twat’s right ear. All the way in.

 

   The fruit fly collapsed. Blood arced from his head onto the kitchen table and the half-eaten English muffin sitting partway on a small dish.

 

   He pulled the knife out, wiped it on the fruit fly’s ass, and straightened with a painful groan.

 

   His head wound sent streamers of blood down his back as he gawked at the muffin. He was so hungry he thought he might wipe the blood off and stuff it into his mouth.

 

   If there was a muffin, there had to be more, right?

 

   He looked around for more food, and barked out in pain. The butter knife wound was doing its own healthy share of leaking and hurt like a bitch with any turn of his head. He grabbed dish towels from a rack and slapped it over the wound and wrapped the other over his skull.

 

   A moan. From down the corridor.

 

   “Hello? Hello? Are you okay? _Hello?_ ”

 

   He stumbled down it.

 

   A young petite woman lay face down on the bed in the bedroom at its end. She wore denim short-shorts and a yellow knit halter top, which was torn up the back, exposing her pink bra.

 

   “Hello? Miss? Are you okay? Miss?”

 

   He pulled her over. The kitchen towels were already soaked. He was feeling faint again. Everything throbbed.

 

   “Miss? Miss? Are you all right? Miss?”

 

   She rolled on to her back. His blood dripped on her.

 

   “Son of a bitch ...”

 

   It was Mary Ann Summers ...

 

   ... from the _Minnow_!

 

   He went to say something, to try to revive her, but fainted. Right on top of her.

 

**~~*~~**

**[Shawn Michel de Montaigne](http://shawn-michel-de-montaigne.site123.me/) **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate all feedback and comments, so don't be shy!
> 
> I should be able to post a new chapter later this year (2017). In the meantime, please enjoy the rest of my fan fiction posted here. Also, please drop by Amazon and take a look at my original works! https://www.amazon.com/Shawn-Michel-de-Montaigne/e/B006M6K0UG


End file.
